


words (are trivial)

by ambitioncutsusdown



Category: The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: (sort of), Anal Sex, Asphyxiation, Choking, D/s, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-19
Updated: 2014-02-19
Packaged: 2018-01-13 02:23:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1209277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambitioncutsusdown/pseuds/ambitioncutsusdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s still not so good with words. He understands body language, he knows what the ache in his gut means, but translating it into actual sentences is harder. Minho isn’t sure if he’ll ever learn. That’s why he’s lucky Newt is here with him. Newt understands, even without words. Newt <i>sees</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	words (are trivial)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shuckfaceparadise (isaacfignewton)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/isaacfignewton/gifts).



> requested/inspired by [x](https://24.media.tumblr.com/4415317e54bb90fd1a7fd309ad09a691/tumblr_n19ao5oa1P1qcg8ndo1_500.jpg). ember wanted kinky minewt so i tried, i guess. i sort of started writing and a few hours later there was this and i'm not even sure what happened in the mean time (i hope you like it cutie)

It always starts innocent. Just a small touch, a brush of fingertips, a hint of a smile. It starts so slow and sweet that Minho doesn’t even know what’s happening until he’s already in too deep – already too lost, and he doesn’t care enough to find his way back.

At first it worried them; both of them. Newt was worried he was pushing Minho into things he didn’t want. Minho was worried he was asking too much.

“That’s why communication is so important, Minho,” Newt tells him time after time again. It took a while for him to be able to talk about these things.

He’s still not so good with words. He understands body language, he knows what the ache in his gut means, but translating it into actual sentences is harder. Minho isn’t sure if he’ll ever learn. That’s why he’s lucky Newt is here with him. Newt understands, even without words. Newt _sees._

When things get too much, Newt will notice what it does to him, even before Minho has _thought_ about telling him. Newt always knows.

Minho is convinced he’s the one who got lucky in this relationship.

Maybe Newt is just going along for the ride (he knows that’s not true, but sometimes he still thinks about it. What if, he thinks, and if Newt isn’t there to stop him, he also knows bad things can happen. _Lucky,_ he’s lucky.)

A cold hand traces down his back, making Minho flinch in surprise and snap out of his thoughts, the lack of warmth making him shiver. A soft brush over one of the scars on his shoulder blades causes him to gasp, and when Newt leans in to press a kiss to the back of his neck, Minho clenches his hands into fists and tells himself to stop trembling.

It hasn’t even started yet.

Newt takes his time though, to be sure he’s touched every inch on Minho’s back at least once, and then moves to his sides and his chest. His stomach muscles ripple under Newt’s touch, something that makes Newt chuckle in this fond, teasing way that suggests he’s making fun of Minho, and it makes him feel so small, makes him feel like he wants nothing more than to disappear and never hear that sound again.

 “Don’t tense up,” Newt whispers into his skin. Minho’s shoulders tightening; he bites his bottom lip reflexively, but then Newt is hushing him and dragging his hands up and down his torso, muttering words Minho can’t hear into his skin, over and over again until they become a song, maybe even a nursery rhyme, something they sing to you to calm you down and make it easier for you to close your eyes.

So Minho lets them fall shut and pretends he’s someone else.

Someone without scars. Someone who can heal properly.

He doesn’t relax, can’t relax, feels like he can’t breathe and the walls are closing in on him, feels like he’ll never be able to escape.

Just when he’s about to speak up, Newt’s fingers wrap around his throat, a steady pressure. He’s not squeezing, instead just lets them rest there, a gentle reminder that he’s there, that he’s in control, that maybe he knows Minho’s body better than Minho himself does and he won’t let anything happen.

_It’s not his body that needs healing, but his mind._

Minho doesn’t say anything.

“I want you to take off your pants,” Newt whispers a few seconds later, his palm resting flat against Minho’s pulse point, and he can probably feel his heartbeat, fast and unsteady.

If he can, he doesn’t bother with saying anything.

Minho’s fingers tremble as he unzips his pants and pushes them down his thighs. It takes several tries but he wants to get it done before Newt has to help him. Wants to do it _right._

“There you go,” Newt says when they’ve hit the ground. Minho doesn’t step out of them yet, hasn’t gotten the permission to do so. “Good boy,” is whispered directly into his ear.

An almost-smile plays around his lips.

Newt tightens his fingers around Minho’s neck, cutting off Minho’s air for just a split second, and it’s enough to make him keen.

 _Please,_ he thinks. Can’t bring himself to say it.

Newt chuckles again.

And then he’s gone, stepped away completely, leaving Minho standing there, shivering, whimpering, confused. He wants to reach out, get Newt’s body close again, but he knows it’ll be no use, so all he does is dig his nails into his palms and stand up straight, trying not to panic.

He’s still there, he tells himself; he is not really gone. Just watching, he’s watching.

For several minutes, Minho stands there, and it’s getting _worse_. Newt has left him, has finally done the things Minho feared he would, has left him here like this, knowing Minho wouldn’t be able to move, wouldn’t be able to do anything without support. Has left him like the _dirty, filthy_ mess he is.

Minho wants to cry.

Or maybe he is crying, he can’t tell, all he knows is that he’s breathing too loud, feels like throwing up.

“Get on the bed,” Newt’s voice cuts the silence.

Minho takes one step, eager to oblige, -- _he’s here, he’s still here_ – and trips, landing on his knees. He whines quietly, hanging his face, knows he’s probably flushed bright red.

 _Move,_ he tries to tell himself, but nothing words, his body isn’t his body anymore, it doesn’t listen to him, or maybe his mind is too weak to get it to work, maybe he’s never been strong enough at all.

“Newt,” he tries to say, but it comes out as a sob.

Someone (Newt, it’s Newt. It’s always Newt) touches him, strong hands gripping his sides and pulling him up. Minho moves without making the decision to do so, does it just because Newt is there and wants him to. “Easy,” he whispers.

Soft, he’s climbing onto something soft. It takes a few seconds for him to realize it’s their bed.

“There you go. Stay like this for me, baby,” Newt says.

Minho tries to nod but he can’t. It takes all the strength he has left to stay upright, on his hands and knees, like Newt has told him to be.

Newt always tells him what to do when he can’t think anymore. As soon as Minho finds the right words, he’ll thank him for that.

Soft kisses distract him, they give him something to focus on, even though he can’t tell where they’re placed, like his body is too big for him and he hasn’t quite learned how to move it yet. He’s so concentrated on that, on analyzing those touches, that he doesn’t even hear the bottle of lube uncap, doesn’t feel when Newt teases his fingers around his entrance, doesn’t understand what’s happening until Newt has two fingers inside of him.

He groans quietly, biting his lip to muffle the sound but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps against the movements of Newt’s fingers, hard and relentless, working Minho open almost mechanically, seemingly unaffected by everything that’s going on.

All Minho can do is just take it, his mind going hazy and all he remembers is _good_ , this is good, this is how it’s supposed to be.

Two fingers turn into three, and Minho cants his hips, instinctively trying to get more, deeper, everything, but Newt’s free hand is on his hips, gripping it so tightly Minho’s skin is bruising nearly immediately.

Bruises upon bruises. What difference do a few extra marks make on a body that’s already ruined beyond repair, a mind that’s already too damaged.

When Newt pulls his fingers out again, Minho can’t stop the high-pitched noise that leaves his mouth, but Newt is there to shut him up and calm him down again with tiny kisses, placed all over his back.

Though Minho doesn’t stop whimpering, not until Newt is lining up and pushing inside, not until he feels full all over again, surrounded by Newt, everywhere, and it’s all he cares about.

If he can’t get rid of his body, the next best thing is to become one with him.

Newt digs his fingers into Minho’s skin again, so hard it makes him scream, and when he does so, there’s a hand in front of his mouth, stifling the rest of his noises.

“You’re gonna be quiet,” Newt grunts. Doesn’t wait for a reply, knowing Minho doesn’t have one ready.

His movements are quick and rough. He doesn’t bother with pulling out completely, instead just snaps his hips forward again and again, trying to get deeper and deeper every time, rocking into Minho so hard his entire body leans forward with every thrust.

Not much later Newt’s hand slips away, and Minho is expecting it to return to his hips, but it doesn’t.

Instead, those long fingers find their way to Minho’s neck again, and this time, he _does_ squeeze, keeping up the pressure long enough for Minho to start trashing underneath him, desperate for air. Only then he releases again.

Minho gasps like he’s drowning, sucking in shallow breaths, and he can’t think, can’t do anything, he’s all Newt’s and Newt has taken control of him, even of his most basic needs like air, and the hand still wrapped around Minho’s throat is a constant reminder or that.

On his next thrust, Newt presses down again, and he’s in so deep Minho wants to _scream_ but he can’t because there’s no air left in his lungs, and his eyes are watering, black spots creeping into his vision but he can’t talk can’t move can’t feel can’t do anything besides taking it.

Newt pulls eases up and lets go of Minho’s neck again.

His lungs expand, like he’s taking his first breath. So close to feeling alive.

He’s not even sure what’s happening, all he knows is that he’s letting go, that he’s found a quiet space and it’s good there, it’s safe. He’s safe.

“I need you to come, baby,” he hears Newt whispers but it’s muffled, as if he’s underwater, weightless, one with his surroundings.

Picking up his speeds once again, Newt grunts into Minho’s skin, and he vaguely recognizes the sounds of skin slapping against skin, but they’re not important. All that is important is Newt’s thumb resting over his pulse, pressing down a little again, and then harder and harder. Minho tries to inhale but he can’t, tries again, but nothing happens and he needs air, he needs to breathe again, needs to live again, needs it more than anything. His body goes rigid and can’t see through his tears anymore, but he knows there’s a blackness there, and it’s so close, but it’s not what he wants. He wants, _needs_ air.

Newt releases his throat completely.

Minho’s orgasm hits him as soon as he takes a breath, even though he’s not aware of it. All he knows is that it feels so good, that his whole body is trembling, that he’s coming back to life and he’s never felt better, gulping down air and shaking, shuddering, until his arms finally give in and he falls face down onto the mattress. He thinks Newt is coming as well, but he can’t be sure about it. Can’t be sure about anything anymore, not when he feels like he’s on fire and his mind shuts itself off.

When he opens his eyes again, Newt’s face is hovering above him, a little worried but smiling nonetheless.

“Hi,” he whispers, gently brushing his fingers over Minho’s forehead.

Minho opens his mouth to speak. Nothing comes out.

Newt shakes his head. “Don’t talk. You need to let your throat rest, baby,” he says quietly.

He doesn't try to protest, trusts Newt enough to take care of him a little longer.

In his other hand he’s holding a bottle of water, offering it to Minho and letting him drink. It’s cold and refreshing, and even though his throat feels a little bit funny as he swallows, Minho doesn’t care about it. 

(It's hard to care about anything when you've just been given another chance to feel again, to  _be_ again.

“You should try to get some sleep,” Newt whispers, threading his fingers through Minho's hair.

Minho closes his eyes and obliges, barely feels how Newt slides down next to him and gathers him in his harm. He's weightless, secure, and feels asleep pressed close to Newt.


End file.
